


Types of Tea

by Million_Moments



Category: Death in Paradise
Genre: F/M, Romance, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:37:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Million_Moments/pseuds/Million_Moments
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story, with tea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Types of Tea

**Author's Note:**

> This story is very slightly AU – in it Camille is not living with Catherine in series one as she is in canon.

Her Mother’s sympathy starts the whole thing off. “I want you to go get your boss and tell him I am cooking him an English feast!” Catherine tells Camille, a bright smile gracing her features. Camille has just returned from the station, where she took significant pleasure in helping Fidel book in Nicholas Dunham for the murder of his wife all those years ago. When she had arrived at _La Kaz_ her mother had immediately gotten the whole story out of her.

“What for?” Camille asks, frowning. Before today her mother has given the distinct impression she wasn’t very impressed by her commanding officer. And she could understand why – the man was rude, intolerant, annoying, full of himself and…well, quite a good detective. No, a very good one, but it didn’t make up for all of his other faults.

“As a thank you for catching poor Delilah’s killer. Now she and Angelique will be able to rest in peace. I think he deserves it, don’t you?” She raises an eyebrow, daring Camille to disagree with her.

Camille shrugs, “I suppose he did do a good job. I am not sure he deserves an entire feast.”

“Well,” Catherine says, leaning across the table in a conspiratorial manner. “Maybe it isn’t _all_ about the murder.” She pauses, and Camille makes a gesture indicating her mother should explain. “I thought he might be, you know, homesick. And it could be causing him to be a bit grumpy.”

“ _A bit_?” Camille repeats, incredulous. She doesn’t think any amount of homesickness, even if he should be suffering from it, can entirely excuse the behaviour of the Inspector in these first few weeks he has been here.

Catherine slaps her daughter on the arm – but not aggressively. “Come on Camille, think about it! Saint Marie is completely different from London. The weather, the food, the way people interact. And he didn’t _ask_ to be transferred here either, from what have told me he was essentially tricked into coming here. Maybe, you know, cooking him a nice meal to say thank you will help him feel a bit more settled, to relax a little.” She sits back, already triumphant in her plan.

“Maybe,” Camille admits, but isn’t nearly as confident as her mother. But then again, he had seemed a little different this case – teasing Fidel, making the odd joke and backing her up with the Commissioner about the arrest (the first one) of Nicholas Dunham. Possibly more importantly, letting her tease him. The science experiments she is convinced were largely just to show off – but she is also willing to admit his knowledge of that area is impressive, and damn helpful, results would have been days if they had had to send them away to Guadeloupe. But Camille had tried to include him, inviting him out for a drink and receiving weak excuses in return – he clearly wasn’t interested in trying to bond with the team outside of work. But then again, she had asked him to do something _she_ wanted to do – not something he would necessarily enjoy. Camille resists the urge to roll her eyes and instead asks, “Fine, what shall I be tempting him over with then?”

 

* * *

 

 

Camille enjoys watching Richard smile, the first true smile she thinks she has ever seen on his face. It makes him look younger, almost like another person. She is forced to admit to her mother that the whole plan was a good idea, though she doubts Richard is fully cured just yet. But perhaps her mother has stumbled upon the key, this is what she thinks as she finds herself standing in the supermarket trying to locate her favourite coffee and notices the boxes of tea on the next shelf over. She drops one into her basket, imagining now she’ll have something to give him to drink if he ever pops over for any reason. Another way to make him feel welcome.

 

* * *

 

 

He stalks into her house after her, and she is going to point out that she did not invite him in but she knows she can’t talk, given her tendency to just turn up on his porch, or hang out long after she had dropped him off without an invitation. Camille isn’t even sure why she does it, but certain aspects of him fascinate her – he is like a puzzle that she wants to be the one to figure out. But right now, he is in ‘most annoying man’ mode, and she does not want him as company. They are arguing over the way they should handle interviews – in that department they always seem at odds. When she is trying to come at a suspect sideways, he goes in direct. When he takes the softly, softly approach – she loses patience and interrupts. They are starting to work better together, but not in this regard.

After continuing to bicker about who was in the wrong for a good ten minutes Camille eventually snaps, “We should just talk to each other first!” He pauses and stares. “Before an interview, we can just agree the tactics we’ll use.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised by her suggestion. “That seems like a good idea.”

“You didn’t think I was capable of having any?” She asks aggressively, still angry at him. But she regrets it and doesn’t let him answer, instead following up immediately with, “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Once again she throws him, “You have tea?”

“Yes I have tea.” She says, turning sharply and retrieving it from the cupboard where she had chucked it the week before. She assumes he wants a cup, and sticks the kettle on.

“Why do you have tea?”

She pauses before answering. The truth, the truth is she bought it for him – but she isn’t sure she likes him enough right now to admit that. She imagines he might even be a bit smug about it and God help her if he was, she would kill him. She is confident she has the experience to get away with it as well. So she lies. “Well, I drink tea.”

“Do you?” It seems to be an evening of surprises for him. “I’ve never seen you drink it.”

“Yes well you don’t spend all day, every day with me, do you?” Thank the Lord. She thinks Richard might be thinking something similar. She has no teapot like her mother so he’ll just have to have it made in a mug, from what she has seen on TV that is how most English people have it anyway. She fetches the milk and ignores his wince when he notices it is UHT – what else does it expect on an island this hot?

He accepts it from her with a nod of thanks. “Are you having one?” he asks.

No, Camille is not having one, because Camille _hates_ tea. The only cup she has ever drunk was out of forced politeness when she was around 13 and her mother took her to visit an elderly lady. She had thought it disgusting, and had not touched the stuff since. Of course, she can’t tell him that. “No,” she says. “It’s too hot for tea. I’d rather have some water.”

He seems willing to accept that little white lie. And it _is_ just a little lie, she’s sure he’ll forget all about it in the future.

 

* * *

 

 

Apparently, with a head injury, she is not capable of driving herself home. The Inspector is insistent that he take her and she thinks arguing would just delay her finally getting back, and she is quite tired, so she gives in relatively easily. Despite being apparently concerned for her health, he talks non-stop all the way back about how this new lead might crack the case open, and she is surprised she doesn’t want to question Greg right now instead of waiting until the morning. She has not seen him like this before, but it is nice to know what she has suspected for some time is true – he is human, and susceptible to the charms of a pretty woman. With him still talking as they pull up, out of politeness Camille invites him in. He seems surprised, but accepts, in turn surprising her. It is too late to revoke the invitation and she sends up a small prayer that he won’t stay too long.

The next automatic offer was one of a drink, but Richard tells her, “I’ll make it.” She watches his retreating back and resists the urge to follow him into her kitchen, because it would look like she doesn’t trust him. She hopes he doesn’t open to many cupboards and realises she lives largely on pasta, rice and coffee when she has to cool for herself. As he returns her heart sinks a little, he has brought her a cup of tea. “I put milk and sugar in it,” he says. “Tea with lots of sugar is good for you if you’re injured…or is it in shock?”

Camille finds herself in the unique situation of being touched by the gesture, and rather annoyed at his assumption she is some sort of invalid who needs looking after because she had a bump on the head. The touched side wins, and she takes the tea that she doesn’t want to drink with a smile of thanks. She is hoping he will start chattering away again, and will forget all about the tea he has given her, but instead she finds he is watching her carefully. There is no way she is getting away without drinking it. Camille remembers the first cup of tea she had was without sugar, perhaps it is worth trying it with.

She settles back on her sofa and takes a sip, then uses all of her undercover skills to cover up the fact she still thinks it is disgusting. Richard relaxes the instant she takes a sip and starts talking again, and she is able to quietly put the tea aside. Camille hopes she can find a way to avoid him making future cups.

 

* * *

 

 

After the woman who he insists is not his type leaves the island, there hangs around him an air of sadness for a few days despite his jokes. She takes the tea her mother brews him over herself, along with her own cocktail to avoid being offered a cup of his tea. They sit in silence for a moment or two. “Surely you at least know if you prefer blondes?” she teases him.

He huffs, puts down his tea and crosses his arms. “No, I don’t prefer blondes!” He says this with a firmness that indicates he might have an actual preference, though. Perhaps he realises because before Camille can ask him if he prefers brunettes or red heads he asks, “Why are you so interested anyway?”

Camille quickly bends over, rummaging through her bag, because his question triggered an initial thought that surprised her. Deep down, amongst all that curiosity about Richard in general, is a desire to know if _she_ might be his type. She has no idea where this has come from, and she makes a mental vow to put a stop to it, as it is entirely inappropriate. When she is ready to lie easily, she turns back to him with one of her best smiles and says sweetly, “Well, it’s a small island, but I think we could find you somebody suitable.” He just shakes his head at her. Perhaps he isn’t ready to share that sort of information just yet, but they are making progress.

 

* * *

 

As much as Camille is enjoying the argument, and she is enjoying the argument, she realises Richard might not be 100% better. He looks pale and clammy, and a different kind of pale and clammy than his normal English pale and clammy. Perhaps the message about his illness had not been exaggerated, and she had been right to hurry home. It looks to her as if he is not lying when he says he dragged himself from his sick bed. “Come on,” she commands. “I will drive you home.”

“I’m fine!” He snaps. “I can make my own way home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she pokes him in the back, moving him towards the door, and he doesn’t put up any more of a fight. “I might even make you a cup of tea if you can manage not to insult either my mother or me on the way back.”

He wisely keeps quiet on the drive to his place. He sits down heavily on a chair on the porch and Camille thinks that he might not actually have had the strength to make it any further. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Make yourself a cup,” he says, as she turns to leave. Camille grimaces, knowing he can’t see her. She could tell him now, he is bound to get suspicious soon since he hasn’t seen her drink a cup in some time, but she puts it off – he is ill, and it might cause an argument. Because it is _his_ fault that she has to pretend to like tea. She does it too avoid confrontation with him, a man who sometimes she swears lives to wind her up. But Richard doesn’t need confrontation, he needs to save his strength. “Can I have the Earl Grey?” He asks her retreating back.

“Um, sure,” she says. Camille finds it in the cupboard, in a rather fancy box, and decides it must somehow be special so makes herself the bog standard normal tea. When she returns to the table outside he has his eyes closed, but opens them again when she places down the cup. She sits opposite him.

“Do you not like Earl Grey?” He asks, somehow able to tell the difference between her tea and his at a glance.

Now would be a perfect time to say ‘I don’t like any tea’ but she doesn’t, instead replying, “I don’t think I have ever tried it. How is it different?”

“It has orange oil in it,” he explains. Camille’s interest is peaked. “It tastes very different from normal tea, a lot of English people don’t like it.” That could mean that Camille _might_ , and she files away the name for later. But at the moment, she still has the problem of getting rid of her current tea. Then she remembers something her mother had told her, as she ranted down the phone, that he had poured the soup she had made _especially_ for him into a plant pot. Camille noticed the offending plant now, still outside probably because it smelt slightly of the soup still. In a moment when Richard is distracted by his lizard making a massive leap from the balustrade to an empty chair, she pours her cup into the plant, and hopes it doesn’t finally kill the poor, innocent plant off.

 

* * *

 

 

The Supermarket does have a surprising number of teas, but it doesn’t take her long to find the Earl Grey. She takes it home and decides to try it immediately, taking time to brew it according to the instructions in the spare tea pot she has recently acquired from her mother. She thinks it will please Richard she has one next time he is over. Then she pushes that thought aside, because it is not about pleasing Richard, she got it for _all_ her guests who might enjoy a proper cup of tea. Because she is a good hostess.

It is a rather fragrant tea and she is feeling hopeful as she settles back on to the sofa, blowing on the top of the tea to cool it before taking a sip. Camille makes a face at the cup of tea, and puts it down on her coffee table, defeated. If anything, it tastes worse than the bog standard tea she has been forcing down before now.

 

* * *

 

 

Richard wakes from his nap to find her cleaning up his porch after the second birthday party he had missed. “What’s going on?” He asks sleepily, it’s endearing actually, to see him so confused.

“You missed your own birthday party, again, except this time nobody is annoyed. You’ve clearly been working too hard.” He shrugs, as if embarrassed by the comment. She nods towards the box on his desk, “Did your parents send you tea for your birthday?”

He brightens, “Yes! And biscuits too, digestives, they are the best biscuit to have with tea. I’ll make us some.” He bustles off to do so before she has a chance to object, to find some sort of excuse. The lizard joins her on the porch and she swears he or she is giving her a sympathetic look. Richard returns with the tea, she notices he doesn’t shoo away the lizard, he has definitely become fond of the little creature. She finds his affection towards it increases her affection towards him – but by that, she mentally scolds herself, she meant simply that they are becoming friends.

She looks at him expectantly and then he realises what he has forgotten, “Oh _yes_ , of course, the biscuits.” He stands and moves away to get them, comes back with them arranged nicely on a plate. Camille probably would have just served them out of the packet. She watches as he takes a biscuit and dunks it in his tea, and Camille decides maybe that would make the tea bearable. It might be possible to soak up the whole cup with biscuits. So she copies his actions – unfortunately, the tea makes the biscuit, well, tea flavoured. She supposes she should have predicted that, but she forces the thing down and watches as Richard polishes off the plate of biscuits with an amazing speed. He notices what he has done, “Oh, sorry, I’ll, um, get you some more.”

She is going to say no but then realises this might be an opportunity to get rid of the tea. She looks around but the only option is to pour it out on the sand – before she does she notices the lizard has snuck closer. She reaches out hesitantly, wondering if you can pet a lizard, but as Richard returns the lizard skitters off into the night.

“What are you up to?” Richard asks, watching the retreat of his pet.

“The lizard drank some of my tea!” She says in a light bulb moment, pushing the cup away.

“Really?” Richard sounds fascinated. “He has never done that to me. Do you want me to make you a fresh cup?”

“No, no, that’s okay,” she says, waving a hand. “It’s late, I should be getting back.”

 

* * *

 

 

Next time Richard comes to pick her up, something he is doing at the moment due to her damaging a tendon that makes driving difficult, she is able to offer him a cup of Earl Grey. She thinks it might as well get put to good use. He is pleased, and surprised, she has it. He watches her as she prepares it, tea pot and all, and Camille feels like she is being analysed. “Did you take a liking to it then?” He asks.

Camille has made it clear that she requires coffee, not tea, in the mornings – so there is no need for her to worry about choking a cup down today. She also realises she doesn’t have to worry about liking Earl Grey, so she admits, “No, not really.”

“Well don’t worry I’ll help you drink it,” he says with a small smile. Camille’s stomach lurches at the thought he wants to keep visiting and she realises that, unlike it might have been months before hand, it is not dread – it was excitement, pleasure.

 

* * *

 

 

He is relaxing around them, starting to drink beer. She wonders if he didn’t before because he was worried it would make him vulnerable, but now he is starting to trust them. So on the day he is tricked into staying here on the island for the foreseeable future, she is not afraid to suggest beer as a drink – it has saved her from many cups of tea recently. She is glad he is staying, though when he starts winding her up, she thinks maybe she shouldn’t be. His whinging about sand in his eye amuses her, but she helps him get it out eventually.  She gives him another beer. “You’ll get used to us,” she assures him. “We’ve gotten used to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Earl Grey experiment had been a failure, but a little research shows there are many other kinds of tea and surely, _surely_ , Camille will like one of them? She starts with the ones she can get from the supermarket, Darjeeling, Assam, Lady Grey and Lapsang souchong. They all prove disgusting. Camille has no idea why somebody would want to drink something that essentially tasted of smoke. Next she turns to the internet, where she discovers hundreds of tea specialists willing to deliver. It seems like tea comes in every flavour you can imagine – she quickly purchases the chocolate tea, feeling hopeful about that one. She also finds something called Nepali tea and Rize tea that she buys for good measure. The chocolate tea proves to be the biggest disappointment of them all.

Richard turns up early the day after their not-date, but proceeds to just sit outside in the car. She watches him fondly from an upstairs window, takes an opportunity to analyse him. She can see a series of emotions playing out on his face, fear amongst them. Perhaps he fears the whole journey to work will be her talking about how wonderful her date had been the night before. Eventually she goes downstairs, opens to doors, and shouts for him to come in and have a cup of tea whilst she finishes getting ready.

He knows where the tea is and tells her he’ll get it himself. Camille has forgotten something key, until the moment she hears him open the cupboard and say, “Good Lord!”

She runs into the kitchen, Richard is staring at what is now an extensive tea collection. He squints at one of the packets, “You seem to be coming quite the tea connoisseur.”

“You can have whatever one you like,” she offers in response to this, silently willing him not to notice there is probably only one tea bag missing from most of the boxes.

He doesn’t hesitate in picking up the Darjeeling and then asks, “Do you have any lemon?”

She frowns, “The Lady Grey has lemon peel in it?”

“No,” he explains. “I mean an actual lemon. Darjeeling isn’t very nice with milk, its better with lemon. Or do you drink it normally without both?”

In order to avoid admitting she had automatically made it with milk, she says instead, “I haven’t tried it with lemon. But I think there is one in the fridge. Excuse me.”

When she has finished her makeup she returns to find a cup of tea she did not request waiting for her, slice of lemon next to it. She considers telling him they should be off, but he was here early and they have plenty of time. Then there is the sad fact that a cup of tea or a beer are the only things he ever gives her, and like some love struck school girl she cherishes every one.

She sits opposite him and says airily, “Well, glad that is over for another year!” Richard is trying to look like he doesn’t want to know any more details but failing miserably. She continues, “Another disaster, as usual.” She has to sneak a glance at Richard’s tea to try to surmise what she is actually supposed to do with the damn slice of lemon.

“Did he do something wrong?” Richard asks in a disinterested tone – or at least what he probably _thinks_ is a disinterested tone. Camille has to hide her smile.

“No, not really,” she admits. “There just weren’t any…sparks.”

Richard, to her surprise, becomes a little indignant on her date’s behalf, “Well it was the first time you met, and don’t you think sometimes first impressions can be wrong?”

“Oh yes,” she agrees hurriedly. “But this is different – he is perfectly nice, he just, I don’t know…bored me. I’d have preferred it if we’d disagreed about nearly everything all evening, at least then I would have been entertained.”

“So you aren’t going to see him again?” He asks, rather boldly for him she thinks.

“No,” she says. “I have no plans in that department.” He thinks for a moment, goes to ask something but hesitates. “What?” She prompts him.

“But if you’d argued all night you might well have seen him again?” She nods, and he looks thoughtful again, and she can only hope those thoughts are going in the direction she wants them to. To hide her smile this time, she picks up the cup of tea now prepared with the lemon and takes a sip. She may have successful in hiding her smile, but he catches her grimace at the taste of the tea. “Oh? You don’t like it with lemon?” He asks. “Never mind,” he takes it and pours it away.

 

* * *

 

 

Camille, in desperation, buys tea that contains no tea. It is a fruit blend, and it is delicious – blackcurrant and vanilla. So the next time Richard is around, which is a Sunday afternoon (her Sunday off, as well) because he has some idea about the fraud case they are working that apparently couldn’t wait until tomorrow and also couldn’t be communicated by email or phone, she makes him the Earl Grey he requests and herself the fruit tea. She sort of hopes he won’t pay attention to what is in her cup but he always does – especially since he has discovered her vast collection of teas.

“What is that?” He asks, frowning.

“Um, it’s a fruit tea. Blackcurrant and vanilla. It’s very nice.”

“Surely that’s just fruit flavoured water?” He asked, unimpressed by her choice.

“Isn’t _all_ tea just flavoured water?” She half snaps, a little annoyed at him.

“How dare you!” He cries, but she realises he is teasing her. He doesn’t seem to care really, he is just happy with his cup of Earl Grey and opportunity to witter on with his theory on how exactly those fraudsters have been getting away with everything up until now.

 

* * *

 

 

She lets him catch her, of course she does, it was always part of the plan. He holds on to her for a moment, and the sound of his breathing heavily in her ear gives her ideas about other activities she would much rather be doing. Perhaps they enter his mind as well, because when he does let go of her it is sudden, like he has been burned – and he takes several steps away from her. “Right,” he tells her firmly. “Now come back and fix my TV.”

“It is _fixed_ ,” she insists.

“Only being able to pick up French channels is _not_ fixed!” He seems genuinely aggrieved, making her giggle. He glares, “Am I going to have to drag you back?” She considers making a joke about her being happy for him to restrain her, but is worried after the recent exertion it might give him a heart attack. Instead she shakes her head meekly, suddenly all innocence, playfully shoulder bumps him and starts back off towards the house. When they arrive they find the boys have left, Richard places the remote in her hands and points her at the TV. She starts the task but is not confident of success, so is inordinately pleased when she succeeds in finding BBC One. “Yes!” Richard shouts, not quite punching the air.

“Are my crimes paid for now?” She asks cheekily.

“Not all of them but make me a cup of tea and we’ll call it quits,” his eyes are glued to the screen, he clearly doesn’t want to miss a moment of whatever this show is…it doesn’t exactly look like a gripping drama to Camille but hey, each to their own.

In the cupboard, next to Richard’s usual brand of tea, is a box of blackcurrant and vanilla. “Why have you got this?” She asks dumbly, waving the box to get his attention.

He manages to drag his eyes away from the screen, but looks away rapidly in order to answer, “Well you seem to like the stuff…though personally I think it is vile.”

“You bought it for me?” She asks, needing conformation.

“Well yes,” he admits, shifting in his seat and still not looking at her. He clears his throat, “Trying to be a good host, you know?” Camille very nearly bursts into hysterics. It has been over a year since she did the same thing for him, but found herself unable to just admit to it. She needn’t have even said it was for _him_ , she could have just said ‘guests’, but instead she had mired herself in a lie that had ended up with her owning a cupboard full of teas she doesn’t like, some purchased at considerable cost over the internet, and a near constant fear of Richard offering her a cup and having to drink it. And yet he, the apparently emotionally repressed one, is able to admit he bought a box of tea just for her.

She knows she is in love with him in that moment.

* * *

 

 

With the realisation that this is, in fact, love comes a terrible paranoia. Camille becomes convinced that one of the key things that Richard may like about her (and she is hoping he more than likes her) is her apparent love of tea. So she cannot admit to not really liking it – what if the whole deception ruins their relationship? She needs to make sure he likes her in other ways – for other things – before she can dare to reveal the truth to him.

She tries to convince him to come and stay with her during the hurricane, but he frustrates her by refusing. In her head it had been all candlelight and deep and meaningful conversations, followed up by them making good use of her bed if things went really well. Fate intervenes, and still lets her have the first two, but though she feels she has managed to get it through to him that they are now a team, that she is there for him, fear stops her from pushing any further.

The next afternoon she wins a bet with him, and drinks all afternoon are on him. They end up staying at his place though, making their way through the beers in the fridge, until he eventually tipsy enough to start regaling her with tales from his university days, and police training. She has a few stories of her own to share, and he laughs so hard he ends up crying when she tells him how she had actually hit the Commissioner’s car on her first day as a uniform.

At the end of the evening, when they both know they have had too many beers, he bring her a cup of that fruit infusion she likes and they just sit and watch the waves. Camille is starting to believe he does like her enough he might forgive her hatred of tea.

 

* * *

 

 

Camille truly doesn’t think there are words to express her relief that he came back. She has never been under any pretence that Richard is beautiful, but him harping on about his lost luggage turns out to be the most beautiful she has ever seen or heard. She wants to shut him up by kissing him, but even she realises that to do so in front of the Commissioner would not be the wisest move she has ever made. Fidel nudges her, his way of saying ‘I told you so’ without actually uttering the words, and she just smiles at him.

They both drink too much to drive, and despite his jet lag he insists on walking Camille home. He pointedly says he can catch a taxi from the rank near her house, which Camille thinks is probably for the benefit of their boss. In her head she has no intention of letting him do any such thing, but she knows fear may well get the better of her again. The whole way back he shares with her the most random and pointless details of his trip – who the current BBC Breakfast presenters are, and how the series was now filmed in some place called Salford. Camille also learns about which lines on the underground had been undergoing engineering works, that the hotel he stayed in had a vending machine that sold toothbrushes and that mangoes cost far more in London than they do on Saint Marie.

She gets the impression he may be a little nervous. On her doorstep he suddenly bursts out, “I bought you back a present!” She raises a single eyebrow. “I put it in my briefcase, in case they lost my main bag again,” he continues. Camille finds that gesture more touching than him actually buying a present.

“Well, can I have it?” She asks, unlocking the door and indicating he should go in. He thinks about it a moment and then walks in quickly before coming to a stop in the hall. “Go through to the kitchen,” she instructs him. “We can have a drink if you like.”

He perks up at that and follows her. “Maybe you’d like this!” He passes her a small gift bag, and she opens it excitedly. “Whittard’s had mango flavoured tea, I thought you might like it for your collection.” Camille closes her eyes, it is a sweet gesture, and it is not his fault she has hidden her hatred of tea for so long. He seems puzzled by her lack of response, asking, “You _do_ like mangoes, right?”

“I do like mangoes,” she says, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. She is about to thank him and proceed to make the tea, when something inside her snaps. She knows she can’t carry this on any longer, not if she wants something more from him, and so the entire thing comes out in a rush. “Richard I hate tea!” she tells him. He looks like he is about to say something in response to that initial statement but she doesn’t let him. “That first time, when I told you I drank tea, well really I had only bought the tea for you and you had been particularly annoying that day and I didn’t want to tell you that was the case so I lied. And then I thought I’d tell you, but I didn’t really know _how_ without causing some sort of argument, we can be so volatile sometimes, you know? So I started trying to hunt down different kinds of tea, see if I couldn’t find a blend I liked, but they were all horrible. Except fruit tea, which you say isn’t really tea, but you didn’t seem to mind I liked it. So I was going to tell you then, but then I thought you might only like me because I like tea and I was scared I would lose you by telling you the truth and now I have said all of this out loud I realise how utterly insane it is.”

He stares at her a moment, flabbergasted, and then burst into laughter. This is not what she wants, she wants him to reassure her, not mock her. She crosses her arms defensively, leaning against the counter, stares at the floor and tries not to cry. _Why_ had she been acting like such a fool?

“Oh,” he says, when he notices her again. “Oh no, please…Camille. I…I wasn’t trying to be cruel it’s just, it _is_ a little crazy but I know, that, you know, sometimes when you are, um…” He pauses, takes a deep breath and says, “I _do_ like you, even if you don’t like tea. I more than like you, I…I love you.”

She looks up, realises she hasn’t dreamt it, and surges towards him, pressing her mouth to his. He lets out a little noise of surprise, seems to not know what to do at first, but soon wraps his arms around her pulling her close and kissing her back. She can’t get enough of him, but still pulls back because she feels the need for confirmation, “So you really don’t mind that I hate tea, and have been lying to you for so long?” Perhaps she shouldn’t have phrased it so bluntly, it might turn him against her.

He places a hand either side of her face, looks into her eyes and says, “I honestly don’t mind. Nobody’s perfect.”

He then moves in to kiss her again, but she can’t help but ask teasingly just before his lips meet hers, “So, apart from not liking tea, I am perfect, right?”

“No,” he mumbles against her lips. “You talk too much.”

Camille feels a spark of annoyance and she shifts out of his reach, “I suppose _you_ prefer your women silent and obedient because let me tell you now, mister, that is _not_ what you are getting with me.”

He rolls his eyes, which only infuriates her more, but then he says, “Perhaps I phrased that incorrectly, what I meant was you are talking too much _right now_.” Before she could respond to that he takes the step that had been separating them and quickly locks her in another embrace. She has rarely known him this confident and it thrills her, to be held by him, pushed hard against the counter. This position also allows her to know that Richard wants this to go in _exactly_ the same direction she is hoping for.

When they break for air, she takes hold of his hand and tugs it gently, pulling him towards the bedroom. At the door though she pauses, “Um, I sort of didn’t make the bed.”

He let’s go of her hand, steps back and says, “Well, I could take you lying to me about liking tea but somebody who _doesn’t_ make the bed, that is a deal breaker.”

She doesn’t believe it for a second, she can see how he is itching to get his hands on her again, so she pushes the door open and orders, “Get in!”

 

* * *

 

 

She curls up in his arms, afterwards, as both of them try to catch their breath. She doesn’t say anything for a while, because despite what they have just done, despite what he told her tonight, she is still a little afraid. She traces patterns on his stomach with her fingers, watches as goose pimples appear wherever her fingers touch. “Richard,” she whispers, because it feels like the sort of moment that you whisper in. She hears a faint ‘hmm’ in reply. It is time to be brave. “I don’t think I have ever felt about anybody the way I feel about you. I know we fight, and I’ll admit sometimes it is my fault, in fact I think you are the only person on this planet who can put up with me picking fights and I promise to put up with your grumpiness.” She pauses, expecting him to protest that he is not grumpy, but he doesn’t – perhaps he is waiting for her to get to the point. “I love you too,” she says, then turns her face up expectantly to be kissed.

Nothing happens.

She sits up and looks at him, realising the man she has just declared her undying love for is sound asleep. She strokes his face gently, presses her lips lightly to his, and he snuffles and smiles lightly but doesn’t wake. Oh well, she thinks, as she snuggles back into him. Nobody’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I am afraid I am away for a while so there won’t be any updates. Thanks to Willowsticks for the ‘Nobody’s perfect’ idea when I first discussed this story with her.


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